A Belated Bride (36 page)

Overall, the wedding had gone without a flaw. Outside, a fresh snow powdered the garden and gave the whole world a magical air. The church had been filled with well- wishers and almost all of them had come to participate in the reception.

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Jane looked around the morning room and felt a swell of satisfaction. The hundreds of candles bathed the room with a warm golden glow. The scent of fresh Christmas greenery wafted through the air and mingled with the hot brandy punch and cinnamon tarts.

The only flaw in an otherwise perfect wedding was the slightest suggestion of fatigue on the bride’s face. Jane noted the circles beneath the brown eyes, but said nothing. Emma, on the other hand, could not look at her niece without turning bright red.

The groom seemed perfectly rested, his attention never straying from his bride. Darkly handsome, dressed in a formal black coat and knee breeches, Lucien was a sight to behold. He exuded a raw masculinity that had most of the women in the room in raptures. Even staid Miss Pip- ton stared at him so hungrily that her father pinched her and made her cry.

Jane was nearly bursting with pride. The best part of the day was the moment she realized that Arabella was now a duchess. Pride filled Jane’s meager breast, and she had to search for her handkerchief through eyes blurred with tears.

Someone thrust a handkerchief into her hand, and Jane mopped her eyes. “Aren’t they a lovely pair? Just perfect for each other.”

“Balderdash,” said Sir Loughton.

Jane jerked her head up to glare. “What are
you
doing here? You were not on the guest list.”

Amusement glimmered in his blue gaze. “How do you know?”

“Because I wrote it.”

A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter, Jane? Afraid?”

Her back stiffened. “I am not afraid of anyone, Sir Loughton. Least of all you.”

His azure gaze darkened. “I’ve been thinking about you. Every night, in bed, I think of what you will feel like beneath me—”

“Sir Loughton,
please
.” Her heart pounding, face heated, Jane glanced around, but everyone seemed focused on the bride and groom.

“I can’t help it, Jane. I’ve had my fair share of soiled doves and done my part to make the women of England happy.” He ignored her outraged sniff and bent to whisper in her ear. “But no one has ever intrigued me as much as you.”

Jane cursed her weakening knees. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to sink into a chair. Now that Arabella was married, her luck would change. She would be able to focus her energies on the cards and, if all went according to her plan, she would be out from under Sir Loughton’s odious power and able to provide for the family.

Feeling noble, Jane sniffed. “This is hardly a proper conversation.”

“Who gives a damn about proper?”

“There is no reason why we need to discuss this now,” Jane said hastily, seeing Emma coming their way. “You and I will never be together.”

“Never?” His hand slipped to the inside of her elbow and he pulled her closer, his breath warm against her ear.
“Never?”

Jane didn’t have the strength to turn away. It had been years since a man had looked at her with such passion. For some reason, she wanted to turn into his arms and bury her face in his jacket, breathing deeply of his scent, a com- forting mix of bergamot and mint.

He tightened his grip. “Jane, come to me tonight. Let me—”

“There you are!” called Emma, finally reaching them. “Isn’t it a lovely turnout? And in such weather, too. Mrs. Poole was just saying that it was a sign of our standing in the neighborhood that so many of our friends came today.”

“More likely it is a sign of Cook’s standing,” Sir Loughton said. “I’d run naked through the snow for a slice of her ham. I’ve often thought about stealing her from you.” His gaze flickered to Jane. “I may yet.”

Jane bit back an angry reply.

“Oh, Sir Loughton, you are so naughty,” Emma said, tittering giddily until she became aware of Jane’s fiery glance.

Mr. Francot approached. Though he was dressed in his usual somber fare, his eyes burned in his pale face. He made a ponderous bow and took Jane’s hand. “Lady Mel- win, I hope I can speak frankly with you. I can only hope Arabella will not regret her actions today.”

Emma frowned. “Did she spill some orgeat on her gown?”

Mr. Francot shook his head. “I fear it is something far more serious than that. I should not speak, but I feel . . . Miss Hadley is an innocent. Her whole life has been devoted to helping others. And now, after barely four weeks of acquaintance, she has sold herself to that... that . . .”

“There, now,” said Jane sharply. “You’ve greatly mis- taken the matter if you think her unhappy. She welcomed this match, and indeed, she and the duke have something of a history together, so it isn’t as sudden as you may think.”

Sir Loughton snorted and Jane elbowed him sharply.

His startled “Oof” settled her irritation and she was able to say to the solicitor with tolerable cheerfulness, “I know this has been a terrible disappointment for you, Mr. Fran- cot. Just give yourself a week or two and you’ll be fine.”

Mr. Francot nodded, though the tension about his mouth did not lessen. After a moment of awkward silence, Mr. Harlbrook strode up to offer his stiff congratulations. Jane watched him narrowly, but other than wearing a slight air of resignation, the pompous lord didn’t appear to be overly affected by Arabella’s marriage. It was with a great sigh of relief for all concerned when Harlbrook bore Francot off to partake of some of Cook’s apple tarts.

Jane immediately dismissed them from her mind. Looking around, she noted that every person in the room seemed pleased and happy. Except Miss Devereaux.

Liza stood by the fire, her gaze fiercely fixed on Lucien, her mouth turned in a scowl. Really, the girl would be quite pretty if she smiled, though her height would never allow one to call her a beauty. Jane supposed it was too much to ask a fond sister to stand by and watch her brother marry; it had been a difficult thing for her when James had wed.

She watched as Robert wheeled his chair up to the new couple and talked with Lucien. A genuine smile curved the younger man’s lips and for an instant he looked untroubled, the way he had before he’d left for the war.

Jane clasped her hands together and smiled. It really was a lovely day. Soon, all of the guests would leave and scatter about the countryside to regale their less fortunate neigh- bors with news of the wedding of the year and her happi- ness would be complete. Except for the money she owed Sir Loughton.

Perhaps it was time to deal with that unfortunate cir- cumstance, as well. After all, with Arabella’s marriage to the duke, Jane’s luck would be back in force.

Smiling, she placed her hand on Sir Loughton’s arm and glanced at him through her lashes. “Could I interest you in a game of cards?”

After a surprised moment, his hand covered hers. “I am interested in anything having to do with you.”

She pulled her hand away. “This is a business proposi- tion, sir. Nothing more.”

“To you, perhaps. But to me . . .” He lifted his shaggy brows, his blue eyes vivid. “I will play you one last time, Jane. But this time, I get to name the stakes.”

“I can only imagine what depraved things you are plan- ning.” For some reason, instead of frightening her, they sent a pleasant glow throughout her entire body. Jane wondered if she’d imbibed a touch too much punch.

Sir Loughton flashed an unrepentant grin. “This evening, then. At ten. I shall be waiting.” He bowed over her hand and looked into her eyes. “And this time, Jane, leave Emma at home. We won’t need a chaperone.”

Delicious heat rose in Jane’s cheeks, and she nodded. Looking pleased, he left, stopping only to say a word to

Lucien and place a quick kiss on Arabella’s hand. As Jane watched him stride out the door, a slow, secret smile curved her lips. After tonight, her debts would be paid in full. One way or another.

nm

Chapter 26

L

ucien heaved a heavy sigh of relief as the door shut behind the last guest.

“Tired, Your Grace?” Hastings asked. “Sincerity can be most wearing.”

“Very. Have you moved Her Grace’s things into my room?”

The valet bowed. “May I ask why you didn’t use Her Grace’s chambers? They are considerably larger.”

“I like the view from my room.” Lucien wanted Ara- bella to realize that she was married. It was time to move forward, for both of them. He only hoped that the memo- ries that he’d created for her last night would help.

Hastings glanced about the vestibule as Arabella emerged from the library with Robert, then leaned for- ward to say in a low voice, “Sir, a sealed missive arrived for you just before the ceremony.” He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Lucien.

Lucien looked at the greasy paper.
Mumferd.
Finally,

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the information he’d been seeking. Once he’d put this last detail to rest, he could spend all of his time doing more productive things—like locating a physician for Robert and reminding Arabella every night of all the pleasures in store for her.

He impatiently tore open the missive. “Bloody hell.” Hastings raised his brows.

“The sale is this afternoon.” Lucien crushed the note in his hand. “I will have to leave immediately.”

“Does your informant mention where, Your Grace?” “No, I’m to meet him and he will take me there.”

Hastings frowned, his lips folded in disapproval. “I don’t like that.”

“Nor I.”

“Your Grace, perhaps I should accompany you. It would be a pity if something were to go awry and you were forced to leave Her Grace alone so quickly after the ceremony.”

Lucien fixed a stare on his valet. “Playing on my new- found sensibilities, Hastings?”

Faint color touched the valet’s face. “I only thought it prudent to remind you that you have much more at stake now.”

Lucien glanced over his shoulder at his wife. In the place of a veil, Aunt Jane had pinned a lace mantle to Ara- bella’s curls. The patterned texture made the chestnut curls appear a warm golden brown and complemented her creamy skin. Hastings was right—he did have more to lose. A lot more. It was yet another reason to bring an end to the jewel smuggling once and for all.

Stifling an impatient sigh, he turned back to Hastings. “Very well. You may go with me. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

An expression of relief crossed Hastings’s thin face.

“Certainly, my lord. I shall have the horses saddled imme- diately.” He gave one final bow and hurried off as if afraid Lucien would change his mind.

Lucien turned to regard his wife. She stood by the library door, talking with Robert. They were laughing, her hand resting gracefully on his shoulder. The sun glinted off her hair and warmed her skin to cream. Below the overtrimmed bodice of her wedding gown, the skirt flared in soft folds to the floor. Lucien could not look at the full skirt without imagining himself untying the ribbons and letting the yards of silk drop to the floor, pooling at her naked feet.

He was damn glad the ceremony was over. It had been hell standing so close to Arabella, unable to touch her or kiss away the uncertainty he saw in her eyes. He needed to prove to her with more than words what she meant to him, what he wanted to mean to her.

Of course, if she ever realized he had purposely tricked her into marrying him, there would be no reconciliation. Lucien rubbed a weary hand to his neck, the thought weighing heavily. The hard truth was that if he wanted Arabella to trust him, then he had to start by trusting her.

And that meant admitting the falsehood behind their marriage.

But what if it turns her against me all the more?
Lucien watched her bend down to hug Robert, her eyes shining with laughter.

It didn’t matter. Once he told her the truth, all that would stand between them would be her pride, but it was as solid and immovable as a stone wall. Lucien was deter- mined to win his way over those walls. Like the constant fall of water, he would wear away her defenses so gently she wouldn’t even know it had happened.

But for now, he had to deal with Mumferd.

Arabella held the door open for Robert as he made his way back into the library. He seemed anxious to return to his books, but she suspected otherwise. Oblivious to onlookers, Robert had watched Lucien’s sister all morn- ing, a strange glint to his eye.

Liza was a puzzle, Arabella decided. The girl regarded her with barely disguised animosity, and for the life of her, Arabella could not figure out why.

She turned on her heel, just in time to see Lucien pull on his gloves. She stopped to watch him through her lashes, unable to still a thrill of pride that this man, this impressive, handsome, virile man, was all hers. At least in name. But perhaps that was enough.

Still . . . she couldn’t rid herself of the idea that he didn’t really belong in this setting. Dressed in his usual black, his coat fitting tightly to his broad shoulders, the blinding white of his cravat a sharp contrast to his golden skin and black hair, he looked as out of place standing in the foyer as a lion in a rabbit hole. He belonged in London among the ton, where he was welcomed and admired. She wondered how she would fit in there, and decided it didn’t matter. She would make her way; she always had.

A strange sense of unreality hung over her. All day, she’d had the strangest feeling that the marriage had been a dream—from the night of passion they’d shared and the warm intimacy of waking in each other’s arms, to the cold realization that she was standing before Vicar Haighton and pledging away her life.

It was a dream that she’d had many times before— Lucien riding back into her life and demanding to marry her. She gazed at him, noting the determined set of his mouth and the strong line of his jaw.

She swallowed.
Please, God, whatever you do, just don’t let me wake up
.

Lucien set his hat on his head and turned, coming to a stop when his gaze fell on her.

She colored. “You are leaving?”

He glanced down at a crumpled missive he held in his hand, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “There is some business I must attend to.”